


you had a panic attack in my bathroom.

by internationalbitchboy



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Squips (Be More Chill), Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Music, Jake Dillinger Played by Britton Smith, Jake is drunk, Jeremy is just an asshole, M/M, Michael Mell Needs a Hug, Michael-centric, Panic Attacks, Rich didn't set a fire, Self-Harm, Song: Michael in the Bathroom (Be More Chill), Suicidal Thoughts, This Is Sad, Trans Michael Mell, its not important to the plot really i just wanted to mention it, pins n patches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29040096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/internationalbitchboy/pseuds/internationalbitchboy
Summary: Colors and counting and panic attacks
Relationships: Jake Dillinger/Michael Mell
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	you had a panic attack in my bathroom.

**Author's Note:**

> This is honestly really bad I just have been listening to this song and mmmmm pins n patches brain rot

"Get out of my way, _**loser**_."

It had taken an approximate amount of fifty-three seconds, one piss-poor excuse and a shaky exhale for the situation to finally settle into Michael's mind, for him to finally grasp at what had exactly played out in front of his very eyes. Time is a relative concept, and 'wasting time' is loose terminology, and yet...

Three hundred seventy-eight million...four hundred thirty-two thousand seconds. That's the estimated amount of seconds developing twelve years. And the same three hundred seventy-eight million, four hundred thirty-two thousand seconds have just went down the drain in about two hundred and eight seconds...roughly three minutes and twenty eight seconds. 

And Michael needs to sit and do the math to keep himself preoccupied because the instability in his hands and the stinging in his eyes was getting to him. Because math was simple, and math always had a set answer, and it always made sense when you figured it out...and what he's being faced with didn't make an ounce of sense. There's not a single moment in those millions of seconds...millions of minutes where he'd thought he'd be on the verge of breaking down inside a bathroom, at a party at which he was never even invited to. Breathe, Michael, it's all you can do.

But as of the past seventeen seconds, he hasn't been able to do that properly either. The build up in his chest was causing him to ache physically, what started off as slight discomfort soon became a sting he hadn't felt for a long while. Michael Mell can't breathe, his temple is pulsing in a rhythm and he can't decipher if it's in beat with the overly generic electronic music buzzing from just downstairs or not. Whatever it was, he decides the cold porcelain keeping him steady would be a more comfortable residence for his disheveled state.

To add onto those seventeen seconds, it takes another ten for the first rib-clenching sob to break through his body and the first round of tears was a single second later. And suddenly he can't keep count anymore. His heart was spasming at the intrusion of tremors in his body and his brain felt as if it was swelling inside his skull. So he panics further, which in turn makes his breathing heavier and makes it harder to see. A never-ending trap he can't wrestle out of.

The decision of whether his chest ached more or his head was making everything blurrier, and the tears staining his cheeks were almost like a burn to his skin. Whatever stability he could muster up he used to take off his glasses and shove them somewhere on the floor, before burying his palms into his eye sockets to accommodate the burning and blurring, if his vision was cut off maybe he could concentrate enough to send himself to a better place.

Yet the sting made it apparent that it's just adding another piercing throb to his already weakened body. He's sure if his sense of hearing returned to normal instead of flatline ringing he'd hear himself loudly wail and cough. And he feels the pain in his chest with every cough, how his ribs clench and his heaving continues. The first wave had always been the worst, the strongest. Like a carbonated drink exploding after you shake it enough, letting out all the excess pressure. 

Never did he think he would be grasping for thoughts, even if they were to be negative, condescending, he wants his mind to yell, degrade him, ridicule him on the sole basis of his recklessness, to come to a party where he knew he was unwanted, unwanted even by the only person he needed. But there's a overwhelming blur looming over in his mind and it's getting harder to be coherent, it's getting harder to convince himself that he was alive.

Despite the blaring buzzing of what could be identified as music, _tasteless music_ , may he add, he could distinguish the booming on the surface from the door as knocking...Not particularly frantic, it was harsh yet with no merit, and there's a hope blooming inside Michael's chest, he can count again.

"Who's in there?" It took about seven seconds for the same hope to be put out like a match, when the voice on the other side sounded much different than Jeremy's. The hope of Jeremy coming back, with a half-assed forced apology to just bury whatever happened was pointless wishing, he realizes this, he wouldn't get an apology, even an offhand one. "Heard some shit man, just wanna make sure no one's gettin' it on in here." This voice was deeper, a contrasting confidence from Jeremy's, and a slur which he blamed alcohol on. With the context clues, Michael assumes it's _the_ Jake Dillinger on the outside...And now he panics from a different reason. A dread sinks down and the hole in his chest tightens, being seen tear-stained and shaking by the person who never invited him inside his home was fairly low on the list of things desired. 

There's a search for words and things to say, maybe an action, something to do, so he scrambles to find the glasses he'd discarded minutes ago, the knocking tunes in with the beating inside his chest, the sleeve pairing with his eyes to get rid of the wetness around, even if more tears form, he'd blame it on weed if he were to be asked. 

"Hey, I promise I won't be too mad-" There's a humorless laugh that follows and Michael can see his hands tremble in front of him. 

"I um, I-" He can't tell if he'd prefer to think that he was heard or not. "I'll b-be.." The words wash away along with the cold water running down his face. The knocking ceases for the time being, and the reflection stares him down. He can see the redness of his eyes even through the dim lighting, he can see the hurt in his eyes and there's an irk in his chest, an itch in his hands. He is a loser. He's just lost everything...

There's a hesitant knock and Michael almost thought he'd shattered the mirror. The self-deprecation can continue after he has left the Dillinger household. The rattling of his hands when he plays with the lock. The hastiness of his movements make it harder than it should've been.

"There we...go?" There's a comedically discombobulated look on Jake Dillinger's face, a look Michael would've found tragically endearing if the setting were to shift, but Michael notices Jake's posture was imminent, overhanging the only exit. 

"I uh, I'll-" Any and all attempt Michael made to speak was futile, any attempt to leave was in vain.

"Hey, you're that antisocial kid...at uh, at school-" A dopey grin breaks onto Jake's face, the snap of his fingers put Michael in the present, there's no malicious undertones there, the confusion was still there however. "With the headphones. I didn't know you were here?" And even if there was no spite there, Michael discerns the alienation. 

"I was a," He pauses before the abundant stammer from crying breaks his façade. "About to leave." Jake makes no attempt to move.

"Why're you cryin'?" The words place another layer of panic onto Michael.

"I'm not I just, I was," His stammering, the way he pushes down his words, or the whole 'avoiding meeting Jake's eyes' wasn't helping his case. His tension made it hard to play it off as being high. 

"Come on man, go inside, let's cry it out together. There's a lotta folks...down there." Michael wishes Jake didn't wear that warm, drunk smile as he spoke, and he wishes he could push his way down, but the alcohol sticking to his tongue makes debating a troublesome case, so he backs into the bathroom again, letting Dillinger inside.

And so they sit. It takes Jake Dillinger three hundred and fifty six seconds to wipe off the shallow, hebetudinous and pitiful smile he fronted with...and another to open his mouth to speak, Michael bore into him from his designated corner of the room.

"Is this about Heere? Your buddy?" Michael would never deny Jake's intelligence, but the brainy son of a bitch hit a bulls-eye with his words, he almost had to force his jaw to stay shut. The dim lights made it difficult to see, but Michael can make out the dull smug look Jake wore, the way the alcohol made his eyes slope, and it was reminiscent of coffee, warm and safe.

"How'd you know?" If it were to question, Michael would say that he covered his confusion with a layer of sarcasm, very poorly might I add, as if Michael played into the case that it was obvious, the reason and bringer of his anguish. 

"I mean, to be fair," Jake takes a shaky few steps towards Michael, who's feet bared his weight awkwardly. "The guy has been actin' like a total jerk all night, haven't seen either of you hang around each other for a few weeks. I thought, yeah chill, Brooke likes this dude, but always wondered what happened with you." The idea of a personal bubble shattered when Jake decided to move right next to where Michael was, the space in-between their shoulders no longer than a few centimeters. Both of them in an awkward half crouched position over the bathtub.

"Yeah, well..." So Michael talks, if only to distract himself from the hammering pain in his head. "It seems like he liked Brooke too...enough to ditch me for a few." There's a soulless exhale, to mock what would've been a laugh. Expressing his anger in such a way, to push back whatever moisture builds up inside his eyes again. 

"I wouldn't be so sure, man." To this Michael turns. "If he liked her so much I wouldn't have just caught him trying to screw my ex in my parents bedroom minutes ago." The first blow Michael took well, he stopped his breathing if only not to show the shock, his eyes gloss over with awe, and his lips part to an extent. "Yeah man. And if that weren't enough, he just went off and started flirting with my date." 

"Christine?" Michael didn't mean to come off so nosey, or so harsh, but deep down he'd wondered how someone can change in such little time. Weeks ago Jeremy would breakdown at the thought of even saying hello to Christine, appreciating from afar. And after everything, Jeremy is- er, was his best friend for so long, so he takes in the guilt he feels when there's a feeling of pride storming around. 

"Yeah, Christine." Jake's plays off on his bitterness, even if he didn't seem overly upset on the surface, Michael can tell there was a blow dealt to his ego. "Tell me, man, what's goin' on?" At this, Michael can't reach for his words, if he can barely open up to his parents, to those title bearing doctors, to Jeremy...why would he even begin to explain his distress to Jake Dillinger? The guy would look on at every shove, any push Michael would receive. He'd laugh along at the names, he'd be an on-looker inside Michael's hell...so why does he feel compelled to spill? Spill his guts, not just the tears pooling at the corner of his eyes again. An embarrassment he could never deal with.

"Wh-Why would you care..?" The hiccup was unintentional, and Michael adds onto those few centimeters of space. He'd pretend Jake wasn't next to him, let alone the same brown eyes that would look onto his torment were boring into him with soul-wrenching pity. He didn't need Jake Dillinger to pity him. "That's right, you don't...Y'just need a cool fu-funny story to tell your group of friends..." He notices the instability in his hands yet again, when he moves his glasses, if enough for his sleeve to desperately wipe at the humidity around. "To talk about next week right? To laugh..." There's an irregularity in his voice, it cracks and shakes, and Jake notices that it's as fragile as he looks.

"Dude-"

"Yeah, dude! You don't even know my f-fucking name, man..." The aggression he displays, Jake could compare to a frightened animal, using whatever fight it had left inside his system. Using an offense to shut down the fact that his mind is breaking in on him. And there's blisters of shame inside of Jake's chest, not only were the words ringing true, the onslaught of high school events involving the two were playing out in his mind, and still, he reaches out for Michael, before he can run off. Ignores the flinch, the initial pushback. "Why can't I just go home?!" And ignores the rising panic and exasperated yells, and pulls his house guest in an awkward make-shift hug. 

"Calm down for a minute, please." He hopes this could grant him enough minutes to form a sentence, a perfunctory apology that'd be ignored...or even remember his fucking name..."Michael."

The realization almost shocked Jake more than it did Michael, he can tell by the way the body he held tensed, even further than he was. "I won't tell anyone, I promise...I'm not that low." The faux offense he played on was dismissive, but there's undertones of hurt there, and Michael doesn't let them stray by. 

"Sorry...I just-" And for a moment he hesitates again, his unstable, shaky arms, unsure in themselves, finally give in, and his eyes give out, and he lets Jake hold him there. As he shakes, as he weeps and cries, he lets him hold on. "I'm sorry." The reasoning behind his apologies was unknown to him as well, he felt the need to apologize, even if not directed at Jake specifically. Maybe an indirect apology to Jeremy, for holding him back for so long...or his mothers, with all the same. For being a constant baggage to everyone, a footnote to everyone's happiness. He cries harder. 

"Hey, come on. Don't apologize." There's a stiffness to Jake, clearly being met with a situation almost foreign to him, he doesn't know comfort, still he tries. The same guilt eating at him, the need to fix whatever damage he'd dealt, even if it took Michael Mell crying his frustrations out on his shoulder, hearing him heave and wail and come face to face with his sorrow. "Just cry it out." Because it's all he could do. If it were up to Jake, he'd stand and take a few voluntary hits, if it would make Michael feel more at ease, if it could payback for each hit he'd let fly by. 

And Michael continues to cry, almost forgetting the shame of completely soaking Jake Dillinger's shoulder. He thinks to all his life, for where it took such a turn where he'd look for comfort in anyone and anything. Where did it take a turn for him to let his guard down this much, to be rooted in a complex maze of self-hate. Where he looks for comfort in counting the seconds of each day, to only remind himself the amount of time he wastes each day, to only tell himself wasting time isn't real. Where he would drag down his mothers to the point where it feels like they dread interacting with him...Where he would lose his only friend after...Three hundred seventy-eight fucking million, four hundred thirty-two thousand stupid seconds. Where the only way to make himself feel an ounce of life was physically taking it out on his body, a body where he felt as if he didn't belong...thirty-one million, five hundred thirty-six thousand seconds, five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes, eight thousand, seven hundred sixty hours, three hundred and sixty five days...Still he finds ways to convince himself to stay, but lately that line is fraying, becoming thinner, and after tonight, the concept of seeing the morning was dreadful, if it were the fact that he'd have to face another day of convincing himself to count or the fact that by morning whatever warmth has been engulfing him for the past five minutes would be gone, Michael couldn't tell which sounded more dread inducing. 

So when Jake moves off, Michael almost panics, but not to play into his dismay, Jake repositions himself by sitting on the floor, pulling down Michael along, to which he clings back on, trying to cry out whatever he has left. He focuses on how Jake moves his fingers through his hair, and soothes him down, it crosses the heterosexual bro line Michael had set for himself, and the beating of his chest speeds up for a few moments. He shuts it down, the thought of ruining whatever he had left going on by making a weird remark or imagining a set of unrealistic events.

"Fuck, I'm a mess." A futile attempt to swat at the heavy awkward air setting around them, yet even if he can't see it, Jake smiles, widely enough for Michael to feel it.

"A little bit." So Michael feels himself smile, if only an upturn of his mouth, a shaky exhale to mimic a chuckle. He uses the same sleeve again, covers his face with his hands to soak up, in turn hugging himself around Jake's neck. "But we're all messes in our own way, man. Sometimes a little less, sometimes a little more, y'know?" Michael was unsure whether he understood him at all, debating if an answer was needed, Jake's posture is drowsy and he's mellowed down, as if the situation was almost boring to him. 

"I-I'm sorry...for this." More breathy and unsure apologies roll off his tongue, and with this Jake pulls away to look, and Michael can finally get a good look into the brown he would compare to coffee, or what he could imagine an autumn night to look like, sepia toned and calm. Holding him, like a yearning, loving mother, stroking his hair in a manner so unnoticeable, ghosting touches lingering wherever they landed.

"Why are you sorry?" A swirl of pity-filled disappointment covered in the autumn eyes, pity that irked Michael, almost to a point of anger. 

"For-" He takes a moment to think, careful with his tongue, as if to not uncover too much, to not let himself get too comfortable. To not let Jake Dillinger in. "For sh-showing up uninvited, and for soaking your shirt-" Michael's feather light touch lingers over Jake's dampened shoulder, but the drowsy, confused smile from before returns, and Michael almost mirrors it, if it weren't for the pedestal of culpability he'd placed himself onto. 

"You're really...really weird, Mell." There's a buoyancy dusted over his words, as if he was speaking without really thinking. There's an ache in Michael's chest from that. Of course he'd known this, Michael vividly remembers writing, in bold letters ' **is the world strange, or am I**?' in multiple of his textbooks, being seen as unusual by his peers wasn't anything new to him, but hearing it in this situation made him feel vulnerable, even more than he already did. "Weird, yeah...But in like, the coolest way possible." This add-on had left a sense of astonishment, a layer of surprise onto the strange pain he felt. He couldn't tell if that was the most backhanded compliment he'd ever received or if that was the absolute sweetest thing anyone has ever said to him. And as mad as he wants to get, he can't erase the sudden burst of giddiness this brought to his chest. 

"Cool? We're thinking of the same Michael Mell here, right?" The atmosphere surrounding them shifts, the tension lifts ever so slightly. 

"What? You don't think you're cool?" There's a shift in Jake's expression, still, the inattentive smile tugged at his lips, and tugged at Michael's heart too. 

"Well, I mean...y-you and I have very different definitions of cool." And just like that, the hiccups and stammers frequent less and less, the pang in his chest went back to a slight discomfort, and he mirrors a grin similar to Jake's. 

"I think you're cool." Uncertainty begins dancing around in Michael's mind. He adds space in between, so that he isn't sprawled out on Jake's lap.

"Now you're just lying." Jake's way to protest was furthering the feather light touches to a full grip against Michael's hip, anchoring him to whatever position he'd landed on. Michael almost flatlines. The concept of a touch has been foreign for a long bit, this was new territory.

"I'm not-" There's a digit moving up, tracing over Michael's figure delicately, a way of asking for a sign to stop what he had started. "I think you're cool in your own way." He inhales, his eyes fixated on something on Michael's shirt, maybe his own finger, the bright lettering on his shirt, maybe nothing at all. Michael is still processing the physical contact, aware and awake in his own skin...and despite the discomfort it brings an addictive sensation. "I think it's cool that when you care about something, you do everything in your power to protect it..." He wanders off, his other hand unsure whether it's grasp should tighten or loosen. "I think it's cool how despite anything, you do what you wanna do, you act like you wanna act...You never let people's judgement change you." And even if he wasn't right he spoke with a confidence that made Michael doubt himself. "You keep what you need close, y'know? You're safe...and you're cool." 

"I'm just...heh." Speechless? Thrilled? Giddy? Not heterosexual? Michael would mentally check those off, but he'd never let himself say those out loud, we're having a total bro moment here. Especially with how tender Jake's touch feels, and maybe Michael reads into it too formally. He doesn't get a whole lot of the 'touching' action going on, hugs are special occasions, so who's to say there's anything to read into? Michael's touch starved, and it just so happens that Jake Dillinger is a touchy person. "Never thought I'd be in this situation." And we know that you need to preplan each conversation hours in advance, that's why he'd ended up in this bizarre situation, he'd only assumed Jeremy would agree with him and now he's being held by Jake Dillinger after crying...what an unusual segue. 

His uncertainty intrigues Jake, if the latter raising his glare to explore Michael's reaction spoke loud enough. "Me neither but-" Michael's list of 'totally hetero bro things' is thinning out just as Jake's fingers pursue his face, and frays further when there's a hitch in Michael's breathing in result. "I'm glad I got to tell you that, before...y'know, I cowered outta it." There's a stray finger slowly tracing down what Michael assumes is a discoloration on his skin due the tears, and he feels himself physically restraining himself from leaning into it, like a mutt, clutching onto any human contact it's been given. And even if the self-respect scale is running low, he's got some left. 

"Cowered? Didn't take you as the coward type, man." There's hope in Michael's mind that Jake plays off the tension in his voice as strain from before, and what was meant to be a smooth 'gotcha' line sounded like he's on the verge of bursting into tears again. 

"Yeah, there's something about ya...But fate's got me brave." And now he feels Jake's palm press firmly around his cheek, and he feels his heart trying to break through his ribcage, and he feels his fingers picking at the skin around his nails and...he feels a lot of things, and then all of it doubles when he notices that Jake is closer than before. "Real brave." 

"Jake-" No matter what Michael wanted to say, or to do, there was a constant barrier looming over in his head. This didn't feel right. The way Jake's autumn colored eyes roam down, inspect him, he feels betrayed by his own. 

"Michael," And again, any excuse Michael can come up with is getting harder to sustain, and the constant shifting in the air can cause him no good. There's an intimidating aura Jake carries, with just his name. Sepia-toned and always looking bored, always seeming dull. Always preoccupied and busy...So loud and known. Michael carried a list of nicknames to be called and a red hoodie. There was no mathematical explanation for why Jake's looking at him with what Michael can describe is a 'bonfire'. Suddenly math isn't so simple, and there's no equation, or number Michael can use to explain anything. "Can I kiss you?" And his heart stutters in it's rhythm, then it comes back with a vengeance, as if it's trying to escape. 

"Me?" Michael didn't mean to sound as condescending as he did, but with all the numbers, and the seconds and the sting in his chest, there's only one logical answer in his mind. "A-Are you fucking with me? Is this funny to you?" There's a bark in his tone, again, comparable to prey, he feels scared, and there's a layer of betrayal crossing over and he feels so...fucking stupid.

"What?" Yet there's this grayness in the sepia. Behind the mellowed-out and gentle burning irises grows an expression of hurt, this has to be a joke.

"Was it Rich's idea? Or be-better yet, did Jeremy set you up on this?" Maybe it'd look more dramatic if Michael wasn't tripping over his words, and pushing back tears- Jesus Christ, how much tears can one man produce? "Do you guys think it's funny? Yeah, mess with Michael!" He wasn't exactly screaming, but the frenzy in his eyes spoke for itself.

"Michael what the hell are you talking about, man?" If it's all a joke, a prank, why does Jake's ego-wounded expression ring so real? Why was his tone expressing such a real tone of bewilderment? "I'm not that fucking cruel..." And he speaks with a defense, but doesn't cover up with the same aggression Michael used...And Michael feels like a dick.

"I-" His jittery hands motion in between, they grasp at the fabric of his shirt and his widened eyes observe all that they can. "This makes no fucking sense..." Use your words Michael. "Why would you ever...You're-" He moves and flails to convey his thoughts. "You're Jake Dillinger and I'm just..." And he points to himself as if he's the butt of his own joke, his voice ushers in this melancholic vibrancy. "I'm just Michael." 

"And?" In all fairness, Jake speaks before he can think, it's his nature yet he blames it on the alcohol, just this once...and the hundreds of other times. "I think that...Just Michael is pretty cool and I think I'd like to-" Another swift shift in the ambiance and the tension in the air turns warmer, or maybe that's just Michael, because the lingering caress to his cheek returns, and Michael finds himself memorizing each crevice, intoxicating himself so he wouldn't be able to forget weeks on end. The burn in Jake's eyes is back and this time it's roaring. "Kiss just Michael." 

So he weighs his options. If this were a joke, he'd still end up with the touch and feel of Jake Dillinger on his lips and body. Ingrained in his memory and dancing with his thoughts. He's already laughed at in the halls, what's to say music can't ignore it this time? To be so foolish to get his hopes high enough? What outcome is more in his favor? How many seconds can he count to until he forgets the feel..

"I can hear you thinking, man," There's a flicker of a smile to Jake's expression, thrilled at his response. "It's a simple question, you don't gotta think it through-" To demonstrate he inches closer, to test the waters, see if Michael's on the verge of yet another outburst. But it's calm, for just a moment.

"I've never...Y'know, I've never been in this situation and I-" Sheesh, I wonder why.

"That's okay...I'll guide ya." There's a dangerous persuasiveness to Jake, there's a dangerous high he brings, and Michael can feel the hangover already. "You okay with this?" 

No. "Yeah." Good going. Causing wars to wage on and break down this wall you've had built for so long. Does it matter?

_It doesn't_. He tells himself when Jake's grip assures itself, putting a close to the space in between.

_It doesn't_. He tells himself when the constant ice covering his inner thoughts begin melting.

_It doesn't_. He tells himself when he can taste the remnants of whatever Jake consumed throughout the night on his own tongue. 

_It doesn't._ He tells himself when the sting gets too hard to bare, and he feels moisture building up again.

_It doesn't_. He tells himself when he stills the shake in his hands by gripping onto Jake's shirt.

_It doesn't_. He tells himself when he feels more miniscule touches grazing against his skin. 

So if it doesn't matter why does the way Jake's hand grips onto his hip cause his heart to beat along in a pattern he's unfamiliar with? Why do all of these foreign feelings make him feel wrong...yet contrasting into a right? Why does he count and clutch onto every second he gets to experience the movement of Jake's lips? 

He resorts to his only coping mechanism. Freaking out. He freaks out when Jake's fingers slither under his shirt, and he freaks out when the feeling of hyperawareness returns. He freaks out when there's a wave of aggression to Jake's posture, burning and hungry...And Michael freaks out from the idea that there's only one possible outcome...disappointment. Because Michael is still just Michael. Dull, and boring, and average. Mediocre at everything he does.

He pulls away the moment the touchiness gets too aggressive for his liking. He inhales and exhales harshly. 

"Fuck I-" He continues freaking out when Jake looks at him with expectancy, with a riot inside the sepia. "I'm sorry," And he freaks out when he pushes himself away, his feet struggling to keep up with him. He freaks out when his hands can't figure out the lock, and freaks out even more when he struggles to rise up for air in a sea of bodies and people he barely knows. He freaks out when he fumbles with the keys of his Cruiser and his heart wont settle even when he's inside. The roar of the engine matches whatever the hell he's got going on inside his head. There's a filter of grain and a blur when he drives and there's a constant screaming at the back of his head. He can't decipher what he feels...he can't decipher if he wants to feel.

There's a tense presence of unease, an air of suspension for the next two weeks. Jake gets more jittery and he gets more on edge when the halls at school are missing a heartbeat, there's irritation on the line and he can't answer why. He doesn't know why there's a need to speak to Michael. A name he'd never thought of, a person he didn't know at all up until a bit ago...And now he can't shake it out, he can't reel it in and he can't stop thinking about it, and he doesn't know _why_. Even the hangover couldn't erase it all, but there's a gap, and Jake needs to know what it is.

His confusion was turning into annoyance, he'd asked Jeremy Heere about it, and all he'd gotten from it was the asshole giving him this expression of discomfort, almost a hurt inside the waves of blue, but he'd given him no information other than, "I don't talk to him, sorry."

There's a ring of desperation in Jake's actions, remembering a state of ecstasy, an almost sense of jubilation, yet nothing to back it up with, and the only other person who could be in on this is Michael...who also just happened to disappear from the school halls for just over two and a half weeks...What irked Jake to start counting the hours he couldn't really tell, but three hundred and forty four hours was a big number. 

The day he was determined to corner Jeremy Heere and fish out any and all information he could get on the whereabouts of Michael...He can't stop saying the name, he keeps count on each time he thinks about it and he keeps count on each step and he keeps count on each headache he gets from trying to remember the feelings and keeps count on each idea of what happened and-

And Michael is walking away from his locker. Usually Michael is warm toned and there's a fire to him, a cordial sense to him, but the aura playing around him rang blue, not that he wasn't wearing the stupid hoodie he wore daily, he was. He walked like a kicked puppy, his eyes focused on the floor, dejected and spaced out into whatever song was blaring inside his ears. Jake gets so excited he forgets to show it. When he tries to move, there's greetings from around him...People he sees almost daily, his attention span's getting worse. He couldn't focus in on a word that Chloe had said, not that it was vital information, but there's a lack of red in the hall again, and Jake groans, possibly too loud for the school hallway. He begins counting 'til lunch. His feet sway away and the complaining from behind is background noise. 

For what it's worth, Michael has a tendency to disappear, Jake's sure he had some classes with him, but his focus isn't here and there's no headphones and there's no red...The jolt of excitement had kept him awake and alive enough to last through the first few class periods. And when that indicatory bell rang, Jake's the first one out. There's an issue forming-

Where does Michael spend lunch? Had Jake been that blind and ignorant that he hadn't even noticed that Michael doesn't have lunch in the cafeteria? 

"Where does Michael eat?" A hello could've been a better approach but Heere's attention is drawn to him. Some things never do change, and clearly he's still as panicky and as jittery as he'd always been, maybe he's convincing himself of his confidence first, then others, but Jake doesn't care to read into him, and frankly, after the party, Jake's still sore. 

"Why?" Now there's an ignition to battle from where's Jeremy's ice cold stare, literally, turns colder. 

"I need to talk to him," So Jake plays into it. Why should Jeremy Heere care? Wasn't he the sole reason Michael was in that bathroom? Crying and heaving and holding on-

"He eats outside, behind, near the field but," Jake can see Jeremy pep talk himself inside his own head. "Don't mess with him-" Was that a threat?

"Oh, sorry, forgot you suddenly cared about Michael again, sorry." There's the mention of the name again, at this point, Jake notices he likes the ring of it, how it rolls off of his tongue. Before any rebuttal came from Jeremy, Jake's already quick on his feet. How is someone this jumpy this early?

The good thing about colors, is that they're easy to describe, and the good thing about reds, is that they're usually a contrast easy to pick out in a sea of blues and greens. Even if that air of blue covers Michael, he beams in red...Mostly due to that stupid hoodie-

"Michael!" How loud are his headphones? He runs in, a jog, and still goes unnoticed, Michael's deep in whatever thought was circling him. 

When Jake's close enough, Michael's eyes focus back, and he hastily turns his head. There's a swirl of...fear? In his brown eyes. Why was he scared. There's an expectancy and Michael inches back into his seat, hurriedly removing the headphones from his head when Jake makes a motion towards them, hoping the smile he wore didn't falter when he notices the tight bandages wrapping around Michael's arm, how he subconsciously pulls down on the edges of his sleeves, how his eyes wander away, away from Jake, and dipping in and out of reality. 

"Michael," But still he smiles and from what he can see, there's a flash of confusion in the brown. He seems disoriented, and the fear that Jake sensed was thinning into unease. 

"Yes?" There's strain in his voice, and Jake's trying harder to ignore how wrong everything feels. Instead he does what he does best, and bursts into Michael's personal bubble. He struggles for words...In all those hundreds of hours he hadn't managed to plan out a single conversation starter, and to be fair, Jake isn't the best with cheesy romance sentence starters, notably skipping the romance part.

"You-" Awkwardly moving his hands and now they're looking at each other again. "You had a panic attack in my bathroom." 


End file.
